A series of serendipitous ideas
by Albernheit
Summary: AU Collection of one-shots: Psyche was destined to love a monster. So was Bellatrix Black. Psyche was saved by Amor. And Bella?
1. All you need is Happiness is a warm gun

Fooling around in Potterverse. Which isn't mine.

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><p>I was going to have Petunia respactably marry into a respectable wizarding family. Turns out she's not interested, the minx.<p>

**_Notes on the update: _**_I've finally managed to rewrite and complete this story. As of now it is a one-shot, though it does take place in a particular part of the Potter-multiverse. In this section Tom Riddle has been ...detained. Anyway. It turned out rather cheesy, I think, but a glas of very dry Muskateller_ _will probably balance that. _

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><p>"I said," Petunia repeated in a clear, firm voice "that I am getting married to my girlfriend. Anouk and I have been dating for almost two years now. We feel that it is time to make it official."<p>

Anouk squeezed her hand: _You are doing great, Hon. _

Petunia Gladys Evans, called 'Tuney' by her family and 'Flower' by her girlfriend squeezed back: _I am not the one with the problem here, love._

That was certainly true: The Persons With The Problem were, clockwise: Mr Harold Evans, her father, Mrs Harold Evans, her mother and the new Mrs James Potter, her younger sister. These people, her closest kin, her flesh and blood, her bloody_ family_ were looking at her with, also clockwise: Bafflement, bafflement, and bafflement-turning-into-dislike. Lily was the quick mind in the family. James Potter, also present, was keeping any thoughts that he might have had to himself, as befitted a young wizard of his station.

Lily had _mentioned _(described, told them all at great length about, bragged, and then bragged some more about) James's family. Not that they could understand the structure of wizarding society, of course, but- Rose and Harold Evans had understood all right: Their little witch, their perfect little Lily-Flower had made a good match. Lily always did well in everything. Petunia didn't care; life with her family was rapidly becoming her past, and the past did not matter. What mattered was here and now. Specifically, telling her family that their spare daughter was getting married, and then moving on to a perfect life with Anouk and music.

She blushed a little. Anouk and music in one and the same sentence made her blush, nowadays. Her girlfriend had seen to that.

_..0.._

_Today was Lily's 18th birthday, but the party was in honour of Lily's recent graduation from Hogwarts as well. Which meant that the house was going to be full of people who could not be bothered to deal with muggles, or so Petunia would have thought. Later in the evening she would distinctly hear one of them pointing out household items to another one and attempt to explain them, thereby amusing several others. Whatever. Petunia was above people who couldn't be bothered with manners. She was 19 years old, thought of herself as realistic, and had trouble living with it. As a young girl she had cherished dreams of becoming a ballet dancer, until an unexpected second growth spurt had ended that. 15 year old Petunia had been devastated. She had always been short and skinny. She should have stayed short and skinny, Lily had! Her mother's only comment had been: _

"_I told you that you are taking after your father's side of the family, not mine." Her father had grunted. Being the tall, bony and blonde one he obviously couldn't blame the 'mule' on his petite, curvy wife._

_The mule had dealt with the disappointment. Her parents, bless them, had bought her a piano, reasoning, undoubtedly, that it was another proper girlish interest. After all, Tuney had wanted to become a dancer because that was what girls dreamed about, right? Normal girls at any rate. Imperfect girls that weren't Lily. _

_Petunia had accepted that she would have to play music instead of turn into it and set to learn playing the piano. Luck, her genes, or maybe the Muse had rewarded her stubbornness and, through a series of unremarkable incidents, led her to a new love. Opera.  
><em>

Rose Evans was the first to regain control over her vocal cords: "Two years! You have been... like... this! For two years."

It was all Petunia could do to not glance at herself and then enquire politely what her mother might have meant. I've always been like this, mum, she thought. Just like your Auntie Mabel who is supposed to have spend her life in mourning for some bloke who fell in WWI. Auntie Mabel had died a year ago, at which point Anouk had put two and two together and surprised her girlfriend by obtaining four. A visit together to see Mabel's 'roommate' of three decades had proved her right.

"_Petunia?"_

_Petunia turned around: "Oh, Severus. Fancy meeting you here. Hello." _

"_How are you Petunia? It's been forever and a day."_

_Severus Snape, also known as 'Lily's best friend' or 'the boy who wouldn't notice a fully grown Petunia' had talked to the Other Evans Girl. Petunia, on her way to buy some last-minute items for her sister's birthday party, considered the possibility that the world had gone mad. _

"_It's been a while, that's true," she finally managed to answer. "What have you been doing with yourself, Severus? I was sorry to hear about your father, by the way."_

_Not particularly convincing, as condolences go, but Severus himself had disappeared from their neighbourhood a year before the elder Snape had died, and, as far as she could tell, never turned up again, not even for the funeral. In fact, Severus did not seem interested in wasting time or breath on his father:_ "_Oh, I managed to sell the house at an acceptable price. I have apprenticed myself to a very good Portions Master from Denmark. I live there, now." _

"_Really," she asked, as she knew the rules of conversations that you couldn't avoid. "I 'd ask you where in Denmark, exactly, but seeing as I know nothing about that country I would just be wasting your time."_

"_Your version of small talk is most refreshing, Petunia. What If I do not mind explaining everything at great detail?" _

_I mind, Petunia thought. Proper behaviour be damned. "See this basket, Severus? It is meant to be filled with groceries and returned home as soon as possible. We are preparing Lily's birthday party."_

"_I know that. I am staying with your family for the weekend. In fact, your mother asked me to help you, but you had raced out of the house before I had a chance to carry that basket for you. Do you mind," he asked, and took the basket before Petunia could answer.  
><em>

_Petunia considered the matter and decided that she didn't mind after all. Why should she? Severus Snape had turned up, completely out of the blue in order to carry her basket to the grocer's and back. Fine. He was telling ridiculous stories about her mother asking him to help her. Also fine. The Queen had invited Petunia for tea. Happened all the time, she was sure. Petunia Evans was 19 years old and random manifestations of the madness of the entire world was not going to trick her into caring for anything or anyone. She was over that._

_The world took note of her determination. It didn't have anything to do on that day, so it decided to fool around. Hadn't there been a song, a couple of years ago? All you need is-_

_.o.o._

"I have been in a very happy relationship for two years, if this is what you mean," Petunia now told her mother, thinking that her parent was going to start wringing her hands, any moment now, she knew it. Like a character in a silly novel. They had always been like that. Walking clichés: The father, something fairly important in a fairly important factory. The dutiful wife and mother. Both of them children of simpler workers, climbing into the cushier parts of the middle class, where they had promptly found out just how much of what they'd known and enjoyed was now considered crude.

This was nothing they talked about, of course, but Petunia had understood it by instinct. Her mother loved to wrinkle her nose at her own mother (The least she could do, after the latter's utter lack of kindness when she had become pregnant with her first child).

She had always known that her parent's weren't happy; she had always understood that in her parents' half-frozen existence Lily had been the proverbial ray of light. What Petunia also knew was that there were people like them in every bad story she'd ever heard. The good-daughter, bad-daughter number that had been the bane of her existence?

(Her parents' resentment of her stemmed from the fact that they had been forced into this marriage after Petunia's conception. Though knowing that would only have confirmed her in her opinion.)

It was a cliché out of a stupid fairytale, or several of them. No wonder Lily had married out and away.

(Mrs. Evans never talked about how she and Mr. Evans had met. The latter was starting to admit that young Rose Barber had not been 'asking for it', as he had then maintained.)

Their family was embarrassing and they dealt with it by making Petunia feel ashamed of herself. Ashamed that she wasn't pretty, wasn't special, did nothing to alleviate the grey monotony of their lives.

(Sadly, blaming their misery on their first child had proved to be some sort of common ground for them. The other thing they had in common was the fervent wish to build a life that was nothing like their respective parents' lives.)

Petunia was dimly aware that she had tried to satisfy her parents. She had tried being good. See her diligence and sense of duty. Obedience, even. She had tried being special. See her attempted dancing career. She had tried being pretty. Never mind how she had tried that. She needn't have tried. Well, no, that wasn't true. Petunia had achieved a lot for herself. It was just that her parents had not been interested in that. They had wanted Petunia to achieve a lot for them. To turn into another image of her mother in her youth, as Lily was. To be another princess from a fairy tale, for that was how they, walking clichés that they were, thought about Lily.

In fairness, Petunia had had the same fixations as her parents. She, too, had always seen herself for what she wasn't instead of what she was. Anouk, on the other hand, had seen her for what she could become. The operative words being 'other' and 'fingers'.

_o0o0o_

"_So, who is playing the piano in this family? It can't be Lily, I would have heard about it if she played at school."_

_Petunia had been lurking close to her piano like a convict who doesn't dare escape through the open door. Entertaining boring, tin-eared guests with music was her most dreaded duty as a daughter of the Evans family. Yet, now that the house was filled with strangers, she could not stand being away from it. She told herself that that was because of the many accidents that could happen. Not that she, Petunia the Muggle, could prevent people from waving around their wands, but- But this overheard snippet made her snort, ugly as that sound was. Lily play the piano, right. Lily figuring out how to make the piano play itself – yes. Lily abusing a wonderful instrument because her freakish magic interfered with record players and radios – definitely. Lily the magical scholar wasting her time on mundane culture – no, no, and never._

"_You are Petunia Evans, aren't you? I am Regulus Black. My brother Sirius is a close friend of James Potter's. Are you the pianist in the family, Miss Evans?"_

_Petunias world view was in deep shock: A wizard had addressed her. _

_She was intrigued despite herself: Regulus wasn't as obviously, as _obtrusively_ handsome as his elder brother, whom she had indeed seen around and remembered. Not fondly. Regulus is younger, give him time, she thought, and this wasn't her usual inner voice speaking. Did it mean the looks or the supercilious manner? _

_He has a pleasant enough voice, she decided. Nice register. Full of privilege, but not not-nice._

"_Of course she is, Reg," another voice answered in Petunia's stead. "Can't you tell from looking at her?"_

_The interloper was a girl, a brunette of medium height, speaking with a light French accent._

"_Did, too," Regulus said, but he sounded good-natured. "Miss Evans, This is my cousin, Anouk Malefoy. She is the definition of impossible but will endeavour to keep her from pestering you too much."_

"_Please call me Petunia. I am delighted to meet both of you," Petunia said gracefully. Unexpected attention was no bloody reason to stand there with your mouth agape, the usual inner voice said primly. _

_She might have straightened her shoulders, too. The brunette smiled, obviously amused: "Ballet too, Miss Evans?"_

_Petunia couldn't quite keep herself from staring at the girl with suspicion. French cheekbones, a turned-up nose and the obligatory sprinkle of freckles. Closely cropped kinky hair, grey eyes. Above all the unmistakable air of superiority. Come to think of it, this Regulus had it, too. What was she doing with these people? What did they want with her?_

"_What is wrong with my name, Miss Malefoy?" Petunia asked, defensively and unhappy about that. _

"_It lacks charm. So much that one might think that your parents chose it as a counterweight." Elegant French shrug. _

_Petunia felt an unwelcome blush spread on her cheeks. Petunia Gladys versus Lily Marion. She knew she was being stupid, but it made her feel that her parents had known in advance which daughter they were going to prefer. Unless they were metaphorically tone-deaf, as well as literally._

"_Forgive my cousin, Petunia. She does not believe in the same virtues as anyone else."_

_Anouk laughed at her cousin: "Thank you for making sure that I don't frighten her, Reg. Now, be a dear and fetch us drinks, please. I can't apologise for my manners with you looking."_

_Petunia shook her head as if to dislodge the deep confusion she felt. There was something more to this discussion, yes. But what? "It's all right Miss Malefoy," she said stiffly. "It's not a name I would have chosen, myself."_

"_At least it does not make you sound like a mad cultist as my surname does," the brunette conceded. "Maybe we can reach a compromise," she offered now with an air of unparalleled generosity._

o..O..o

"But what about your music, Petunia? I thought that was important to you! After you've been finally accepted at a good school! Are you really giving that up now?"

This time Petunia did roll her eyes. A good school. The bloody Royal Academy, she thought. Potter's already married you, Lily dear, there is no need to pretend that you do not know the real world.

"Did I say anything about giving up music, Lily? Or do you assume that there are no schools in France?"

"France! You are moving?"

"We certainly are," Anouk told Lily. "We are moving back to Paris, I will be working at the Museum of Discrete Demonics and Petunia will be able to study to her heart's content."

"But she has been accepted here in England," Lily said frowning.

"People are allowed to apply at more than one school, Lily. I auditioned at the Conservatoire in Paris and apparently they do not mind having me," Petunia told her.

"I didn't know you'd applied in Paris."

"I didn't tell you," Petunia replied. "I was so nervous that I couldn't bear talking about it." Also, you weren't around, but never mind that. It's not your fault that we aren't close. That is, you did not start it. Just let me get far, far away from here and I will completely forget it.

"Your- Your family is all right with this?" Mrs. Evans, slow to regain her voice, was fast to get to the heart of the matter, which was Anouk's illustrious and very wealthy family. Petunia had told them in self-defense, when they had started wondering about that foreign girl. Yes, Petunia had outclassed Lily. Not that that had been her intention when she had tried to figure out what this odd girl wanted from her, at the party celebrating Lily's graduation two years ago.

"_I forgot to ask you what you liked," the girl said, looking at her cousin's retreating back. "I hope you had the good sense to not provide drinks that you don't like yourself."_

"_My sister chose. But I will probably be all right with whatever Regulus chooses." _

_The obvious answer to her question was that they talked to her because they wanted to vex her, Petunia thought, but the obvious answer failed to account for the strong hint of self-mocking that she could detect in the French girl's demeanour. Wait a moment: "Are you French or is it only your name that sounds like it?"_

"_I am as French as the name, which is to say more or less completely. My closest relatives here in England are called Malfoy. Your sister knows the current heir from school."_

_Lily knows all sorts of impressive people from school, Petunia thought sourly. Aloud she said: "I expect she does. It appears that there is only one school of magic in England."_

"_In Britain, actually. Your magical population is quite tiny. There used to be more schools, I think, but they did not survive the competition with Hogwarts. Wizards who want to send their children elsewhere choose between Ireland and Durmstrang, wherever that is."_

"_You don't know on which country the school is located? Is that even possible?" It sounded very far-fetched, even for magic._

"_Officially we don't. One has to get an invitation to be able to find it, and I have no idea why anyone would want one. They are even more uncivilised than Hogwarts."_

_Now that was something Petunia thought, too. Hogwarts was: "Uncivilised? Whatever could you mean, Miss Malefoy?" _

_'Miss Malefoy' burst into surprisingly unaffected laughter. Petunia smiled despite herself. Regulus returned sans drinks. "I am sorry," he addressed _her_, not his cousin, "but the only beverage I recognised was the butterbeer and I know that Anouk doesn't like it."_

"_Butterbeer? I did not see any butterbeer on that buffet," Petunia exclaimed. _

_The brunette chose the same moment to cry indignantly that she most certainly didn't. They then looked perplexed at each other: "Are we talking about the same stuff," Petunia asked tentatively. "Regular beer, warmed in a pot, mixed with molten butter?"_

_The two cousins looked first surprised, then relieved, then interested: "No. What we mean is a thin milky carbonated beverage with a little alcohol. Think of it as milk lemonade. It's very popular with children."_

"_My Grandmother would be horrified," declared Petunia. "Her butterbeer is warm ale with sugar, butter and eggs."_

_Now she had their complete horrified attention. The girl recovered first: "Ah. Like crème brûlée with beer?"_

"_Exactly. Crème brûlée with beer and no caramel on top."_

_They looked at each other. The hour was neither early nor late. The party proper was reaching the stage known as 'full swing', but none of them was particularly interested in it._

"_I could order our house-elf to make some," Regulus said pensively. "He will know how to make it." He then looked at his cousin who hadn't produced any derisive sounds, not at all: "What did I say?"_

"_You proposed inviting a house-elf into a muggle household, thereby frightening both the elf and the occupants of the place, risking a serious incident, ministry intervention, mass obliviations, chaos, death and destruction. Really, Reg. Do you think before speaking?"_

_She had actually said it with a straight face. Regulus was keeping a straight face, and it was ridiculous, it had to be! _

"_I do not mind cooking some myself," Petunia offered. Timidly, 'cause, what if it hadn't been ridiculous? So much wasn't, even if she thought so. Lily talked about potions with a straight face. Eye of newt and wing of bat and the correct boiling and stirring of both. Petunia looked at her companions. She hoped she hadn't said anything inappropriate. The evening had just started getting nice!_

"_Actually, it is beastly of us to ask you, Miss Evans, but it is really not a good idea to call a magical creature into your house. A panicking house-elf could destroy every electrical appliance that you own," Anouk explained. "And Reg and I are both incapable of doing our own cooking," she added as an afterthought._

"_But I really don't mind whipping up a butterbeer," Petunia-the-Culinarian assured her unexpectedly entertaining guests. "I do not have proper old-fashioned cups to serve it in, but it will taste just the same out of modern ones."_

"_I expect we could transfigure something into goblets," offered Regulus who wished to make up for proposing to bring a house-elf into an exploration of the Mysteries of Muggle Life. For that had been how Anouk had coaxed him into coming, or "sitting in your room and brooding won't get you anywhere, you idiot. Let's crash that party of your brother's buddy's fiancée. We might even meet someone nice there, who knows?"_

"_Oh, absolutely We are going to a party where all guests are British witches and wizards and we are going to meet someone new. Someone who spend their time in Hogwarts under an invisibility cloak, I expect."_

"_Oh, do shut up you overgrown little prat. I will be there, too, and I did not attend that silly school. Maybe some other guest will spring a surprise on you, too."_

_Regulus had mumbled and whined and tagged along. He tended to. Things tended to get interesting around his annoying fourth cousin many times removed. They had been surprised, too. The butterbeer had been good, nothing at all like the watery stuff of the same name that he was familiar with. Later they had congregated around the piano, where he had wisely not suggested charming the piano so that it would play by itself. Petunia had played for them, instead. Regulus was disposed to like her. He did not share his parents' reservations about all things muggle; Petunia appeared to be completely normal. And... Anouk was intrigued. Really intrigued. He did not mind that, either. He was happy to stand back a little and let her rope him into the discussion whenever she felt like it. Watching his elders flirt was a favourite source of amusement. _

_Anouk was interested. She had not expected anything from this evening. Regulus had had a minor disagreement with his parents. His parents usually reserving their critique for their eldest, Regulus had been surprised by the turn of events, even hurt. Sirius, in an uncharacteristic bout of brotherly concern, had suggested that the two of them tagged along to this party, if she could "keep the little oaf from sulking, that was just one of our mother's regular little attacks." _

_Anouk had endeavoured to cheer up Regulus, and was now reaping the reward for her altruism. Sort of. If her assessment was right then Petunia wouldn't have considered girls "that way" before, so the actual reaping would take time. (hmmmm. Reaping. This girl was so beautiful, in a snow-queen-way) Well, Anouk had time. She was digging in her British relatives' libraries for certain rare old tomes; there was a scholarly name for that activity and she was damned if she remembered it. (She so enjoyed, er, digging.)There were more memorable things in life than names. Flowers, for example. So many things one could do with a flower. Adore, touch, smell. ...she would have to keep her thoughts in check if she was to accept that Petunia would take time._

_...but really who would have expected anything from the sister of Potter's intended? Nice girl, Lily. Pretty, intelligent enough to graduate as top of her year, yet curiously ignorant of the shades life offered between black and white. Not interesting._

_Petunia was interesting, but she would take time. This had not deterred Anouk. She was something of a womaniser, but she prided herself on knowing that special things deserved time. The evening had progressed in a most satisfactory manner, with butterbeer, jokes and Ragtime. An inebriated Petunia had smashed the lid of the piano on the fingers of someone who had attempted hexing it. Regulus had led the poor bloke away for a healing spell and Anouk had complimented the quickly repentant Petunia on her blood-thirsty manner, thus earning herself an invitation for tea. _

_oOoOo_

"_Petunia," Mrs. Evans asked in surprise, "I did not know that you had guests."_

_Mrs. Evans clearly did not respect her daughter's privacy. She had hammered against the door of the girl's room and might have turned really unpleasant but for the unexpected person appearing next to her daughter._

"_One guest, actually. Mother this is Anouk Malefoy, whom I met at Lily's birthday. Anouk, this is my mother."_

"_Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Evans."_

"_Oh, dear me. Nice to meet you, Miss Malfoy. Are you at Lily's school? I fancy I know your name." _

"_That would be the British line of the family, Mrs Evans. I am just visiting. My cousin Sirius took me to Lily's party and we hit it off, Petunia and I."_

"_Oh, yes, Serious, of course."Mrs. Evans was getting seriously flustered. She had come up to remind Petunia of something or the other that she had to do. Finding her recluse of a daughter in company had been unexpected. Learning that Petunia's company was from Lily's world was so unimaginable that it threatened to melt poor Mrs. Evans' brain. Petunia keeping company with Lily's friends, fancy that! She retreated rather hastily. It was not as if she'd caught Petunia with a boy, after all._

_Anouk relocked the door._

"_Do you always spell the doors in other people's homes," Petunia snapped at her. Her mother's intrusion had done nothing for mood. At least, Anouk hoped it was that and not regret._

"_I am sorry. I'll open it again if you want. I tend to do lock doors no matter where I am. I have a big family with lots of young children and very remarkable pets."_

"_I bet you do," Petunia said. "Dragons and griffins, I am sure."_

"_Cats, monkeys and birds, if you care to know. Look, I am sorry. I got carried away. I promise to sit at a distance from you from now on and we can just listen to the music. Or, if I've really made you uncomfortable I'll leave." She paused. "But I hope that it wasn't that bad. And I can restrain myself."_

_If Anouk had been male, Petunia would have thrown her out an hour ago, possibly after biting her tongue. Actually, if Anouk had been male Petunia would never have invited her. As it was she had. She had thought that she was pleasant and interesting. She had not expected to be kissed, of course._

_But. _

_It'd been nice. Actually. Kiss with appropriate music in the background. Obviously, the music was not an accident. But it was nice touch, even if it was premeditated. Date-at-a-nice-place-nice._

"_I don't suppose you could check if my mother's listening? I really don't need a fight with my parents."_

_Anouk winked with one of those stupid magic wands. Then she caught Petunia's look:_

"_I am sorry, you meant checking the normal way." She stood up, but Petunia caught her sleeve:_

"_Did you really say 'normal'?"_

_Anouk smiled: "I might have. It is the normal way for you, isn't it?"_

"_Hmph. You wouldn't catch my sister saying it, and she's part of a muggle family."_

"_Your sister must have had a hard time adapting to the magical world. Several people whom I like and respect have assured me that it is very hard indeed. Do you want to talk about your sister?" _

"_You don't want to talk at all, do you?"_

"_Not true. I told you, I got carried away, but I am capable of restraint."_

_Not that Petunia wanted to talk about her sister. Damn her mother for butting in! She could have gone on for hours without noticing that she was doing something entirely abnormal! _

_She looked at Anouk, who looked very nice, entirely normal, and happened to be a great kisser._

_Petunia wasn't naïve. She had heard about such people before. Why, yes, it was 1977, not 1779._

"_I assume that you haven't been assailed by women before," Anouk offered. She was beginning to look like a duck in a thunderstorm, Petunia thought, and giggled:_ "_That was an attack?"_

"_An ambush," Anouk assured her. "Successful until your mother rushed to the rescue. Aren't you glad she did? "_

_If you put it this way, then: "No, I am not. Lock the door and pretend it didn't happen. And if you go too far I will bite your tongue."_

"_I will refrain from provoking any application of teeth that we haven't previously agreed on," Anouk said earnestly, but she still proceeded to introduce Petunia into her own edibility. _

_OooOooo!_

"But how are you going to attend," Lily now cried in desperation. "You don't speak French, and you can't use magic to learn it!"

"Lils. You are overreacting," Potter said quietly.

"You have no idea what you're talking baout," Lily told her husband in exasperation, " but I do. French was her worst subject at school. Tuney's rubbish at foreign languages."

"A lack of incentive will often lead to disinterest in a subject," Anouk interjected silkily. "I have been teaching Petunia for a year now and I can't complain about her progress."

That tone._ Thank you for giving my parents matching heart attacks, love,_ Petunia thought. Actually, she knew that her oh-so-detached girlfriend was angry. Anouk often was, when she appeared, or pretended to be detached.

_).(_

_Anouk had left England in early December, citing a meeting of her extended family. They had met again in February, Anouk admitting that she'd been back for more than two weeks, already. Petunia had not been surprised; she'd been waiting to be told that that had been it for some time. ("I must be good for a beginner if I merit another round of your lessons,"Petunia had said acidly._

"_It is I who should feel flattered, chérie. I thought you'd be looking for another instructor before the year was over."_

"_What is that supposed to mean?"_

"_Oh, there is a number of interpretations. 'We never talk' is one of them. I prefer 'considering how much we fuck we could assume that we will like each other for other things, too.'")_

_What she hadn't expected was that Anouk had been waiting to be told that, too._

_o..O..o_

_Anouk and Petunia progressed by fighting and making up, or stop-and-go:_

_Petunia was wary of the magical world:_

"_You realise that I am a witch, too, don't you darling?"_

"_Yes, but you are normal. You are not like my sister at all."_

"_Most people are neither your sister nor like your sister. How hard is that to understand?"_

_Lily got engaged. A burned-out Petunia agreed to get a job in London and move in with Anouk. The muses knew what she had told her parents. Anouk was happy to finally have her with her._

_Anouk wasn't making progress in her library research, the owners of the libraries being happy to invite her for gallons of tea and reluctant to let her read books that they themselves hadn't known they owned ("Ruining my nerves with that awful English tea. What the hell makes you benighted islanders think that you have to pollute perfectly good tea with milk?"_

"_Do shut up. Your brother's hot Japanese girlfriend isn't listening. And get another job, or simply stop working, god knows you can do whatever you want.")_

_Petunia was still spending to many weekends with her parents, always returning tired and short-tempered. ("I can't believe her! No laundry done since the last time I did it, what they hell was she thinking? I had told her that I wouldn't be able to come for two weeks!"_

"_Dearest, if you insist on being their bloody maid they will try to teach you manners for personnel.")_

_.().  
><em>

_Lily got married. At the wedding the elder Mrs. Evans declared that Lily deserved happiness for being such a good daughter to her parents. The younger Mrs. Evans told her that Petunia was steadily getting worse, living in fancy flats in London and taking singing lessons instead of finding a husband who'd take her. Petunia shattered their champagne flutes with a well-executed high c, but still had a nervous break-down afterwards. Anouk told her that she had the drama queen part of singing down, and could she please resume her singing lessons? Failing at your first audition because of frayed nerves was no reason to give up, damn it. Her new personal record in ultra-marathon-hugging (UMH) was 3:55:46h._

_Petunia lost patience with Anouk's complaints about backward British pure-bloods who would rather let an old book rot than donate it to a library. And she was only trying to acquire copies, for fuck's sake!_

_("Then take that god-damned job they offered you in Paris! What's your problem, are you afraid you'll been seen doing something serious?"_

"_What the fuck do you know about being serious? You won't continue singing because your bloody parents are too stupid too approve of it!"_

"_That's nothing to do with what I said. I am talking about your idiotic fear of commitment."_

"_My fear of commitment? Me? Are you out of your mind?")_

_The problem they'd never had was Petunia accepting her own preferences. This one the one abnormality that Petunia could accept without blinking._

("_Sometimes I wonder why I ever thought that this would take more time," Anouk mused one afternoon._

"_Are we talking about your way into my knickers?" Petunia enquired coldly. _

"_Your way out of them is rather more like it, don't you think?"_

"_I am experimenting, if you want to know."_

"_Really? Any results that you'd like to share?"_

"_Other than that I like what you just did with your tongue?"_

"_I've already suspected that."_

"_Suspecting is not the same as knowing."_

"_True.")_

_o.0.0.0.o_

"Petunia, I hope your girlfriend has told you that if you marry into this family you will not be allowed to have your own children as even with a magical father there is no guarantee that they will have magic."

Silence.

"Potter," Anouk said coldly, "under normal circumstances I would challenge you for this insult. However, today is an important day in my life, so I will simply assume that you are talking without thinking, and that your wife never mentioned the potions she used to feed her sister when they were kids. My family was happy to welcome Petunia before any of us realised that she has a strong but inactive magical core. Something your wife has known for years."

(Petunia had had a case of food poisoning, a frantic Anouk had thoughtlessly given her a potion. She had been frightened that she had made it worse. Then both of them had been frightened when it had worked as it should.)

"Potions? Your sister is like that because you gave her potions," Mrs. Evans, she-of-the-one-track mind, shrieked at Lily.

"Mum, that's nonsense. Magic potions do not work on muggles," James muttered, and they do not work this way anyway, he did not add, because his thoughts were elsewhere, and they were troubling him. The magical properties of most potions did not manifest in the usual way but that did not mean that the ingredients couldn't work in other ways. There was a reason that giving potions to muggles was a felony: "Lily? Did you really give your sister potions? You know that that's a - You know that it's muggle-baiting, don't you?"

"It's not! I am muggle-born myself!"

James Potter paled: "Lily! If you have magic then you are a witch, no matter who your parents are. You of all people should know that."

Lily had turned a deep red: "I was thirteen! Tuney was being jealous and nasty all the time, and she kept searching my things, and, and, and Severus said that the potion wouldn't work on her, and Professor Slughorn had said it, too, so we gave her one that had all sorts of nasty ingredients. Nothing dangerous, just so that she would be disgusted when I told her afterwards. And then she started growing, and Sev said that she would have grown anyway, but I wasn't sure, so Sev suggested to test it."

That was it. Potter and the two Evanses descended on poor Lily like the wrath of god, leaving Petunia to experience her parents' displeasure from the sidelines. It was rare enough an occurrence in her life.

And it was not a pretty sight, Petunia decided after a while. If nothing else, she had been jealous, and a pest, and Lily had been fully justified in playing a prank on her: "Will you leave her alone, the three of you? It was a little fight between sisters and it concerns none of you!"

She'd have expected them to be surprised, she'd really had. After all, she just had taken her sister's side. It should have been a red day in the calendar of the Evans family. The Evans family however was more interested in berating Lily. Why am I surprised, Petunia wondered idly.

"Do we have to sit this out, Flower," Anouk asked her quietly. "Forgive me for saying so, but this spectacle lacks in interest, even if it is all about you."

Petunia grinned: "It's not about me. I don't think that it ever was."

"That's probably true. Let's go home, sweetie."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Rambling:<strong>

Petunia's physical description reminds me of the first girl in my class at school (back then) who came out. She had been a rather insignificant existence at the margin of things, not unpopular, just too colourles / odd to be noticed (teenagers are cruel, but we always knew that). Interestingly, coming out did a lot for her.

Somehow, Petunia-in-my-mind highjacked my misgivings about Canon!Petunia (she turned into an abusive monster because her sister had been pretty and a witch? WTF?) and my memories of that girl at my school and made me write this Princess Charming story for her. Princess Charming being Petunia, who finds a lot of talent and beauty in herself, though I like to think that Anouk isn't too bad, either.


	2. Lily, afterwards

Ok, I may have deformed them a little. The characters are still not mine.

* * *

><p>"Lils, your parents weren't happy with each other." James Potter was tired. "This will be better for them, in the long run."<p>

"Really, Jamie? And what, pray, is your criterion for judging marital happiness? Both partners dying within weeks of each other?" Lily Potter was livid.

"My parents were sick, Lily. They settled their affairs and choose to avoid prolonged suffering. Dragon pox is not a kind way to go." James knew that Lily had been deeply hurt by the death of his parents, five months ago. He could not have claimed, in all honesty, that he had managed to let them go, already. Even though he, unlike Lily, did not have a problem with suicide as such. He refrained from saying that because he knew that Lily's problems with this aspect of wizarding culture would not go away because he kept repeating something. He also refrained from comparing her anger over her own parents' recent separation to her unwillingness to accept the elder Potters' suicide, because that would have been tactless and nasty. Lily did not want to prolong anyone's suffering. She was simply having difficulties realising that sometimes the only choice was to end it quickly or to end it slowly.

Lily Potter was confused, angry, worried, and plain old hurt. Losing her parents-in-law mere months after they had welcomed her into their family had been bad. Accepting that they had decided to die before their illness – dragon pox, while not terribly common, was still an ailment that would hit elderly witches and wizards often enough – had had the chance to take its toll on them was hard.

Lily was an apprenticed Alchemist. People who dream of the Philosopher's Stone do not choose death easily.

She was deeply worried about her parents. She had been thrown out of her life rudely when she had been eleven. Only now, with school and the necessary returns and subterfuge finally over, was she starting to believe that she might build a new life for herself. Her parents however were in their fifties. How would they cope with the loss of their future? The loss of their friends, who were currently maliciously dissecting their lives over tea?

"I am sorry, hon. I want them to be all right, and I do not see how they will ever be, now. They are all but alone, for fuck's sake."

James smiled to himself. As long as Lily was swearing she was all right.

"Lils, I saw them at our wedding and I saw at your sister's wedding. They were bemused but they were all right. I think your parents may better at adapting to change than you can imagine."

That was certainly true, Lily thought. Once they had accepted that Tuney had somehow wriggled her way into the wizarding world they had accepted it lock, stock, and daughter-in-law. But that was because they expected the magical world to be strange, Lily thought. If Tuney had introduced them to a muggle girlfriend they would have shown her the door. But she couldn't explain that to James. She wanted him to like them. They were all the parents she had.

Tuney had been a surprise in a surprise in a surprise. Lily had enjoyed her sister's wedding. Watching the visiting blood 'aristocrats' squirm had been such fun. Lily was aware that wizarding France happened to view the matter from the opposite side, squabbling over talented newcomers like stamp collectors over rare old misprints. Tuney's new family sported two Veela, some sort of goblin and pretended to have a fay, though Lily refused to believe that without proof. What sort of insane person would marry a member of a genetically insane, murderous race?

And now Tuney had become a collectable her magical core that made her react to potions exactly as a witch or a squib would, but let her also react to wand cores, which no squib ever did. And then, mysteriously, did not react to any wand. It was an intriguing problem, and it was not meant to be put in the hands of totally irresponsible people. Which was apparently why her new sister-in-law intended to take it to Riddle! A part fey if there'd ever been one, messing where humans weren't meant to mess, with his combinations of muggle biology and magical research. Which, of course, none but him and his cronies could review. How convenient, Lily thought. So much for peer review. Lily had tried to warn Tuney. Dumbledore had taught Riddle personally, and he had warned them about the dangerous nature of Riddle's interests. Tuney's only response had been that a headmaster was not a scientist. In none of the two worlds. She was so irresponsible! She knew nothing about these people yet she was willing to trust them with her life!

"Lils. Are you still thinking about Petunia? You are not responsible for your sister."

Lily thought of Sunday school, many years ago, and shuddered. James noticed it and put an arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, honey. Her new family may be completely impossible, by our standards, but she is one of them now and they will protect her. You saw the contracts yourself. Even if she and Anouk separate tomorrow, Petunia is in. The Malfoys don't let their trophies go."

Oh yes. Lily had seen the contracts. Contracts for every possible and impossible death and remarriage, contracts for every possible, impossible, and plainly inconceivable offspring. Petunia hadn't married that day, she had inured a package of contracts.

Lily sighed. It did not matter. These people were unbelievably nasty _and_ formal_ and_ cold, but her sister would be able to keep abreast. If truth were told.

She smiled at James. He was right, of course. Her parents and Petunia were grown-ups. Hell, she was the baby of the family! Maybe she really was not responsible for all of them. And she could watch then from afar, couldn't she? She could, and she would. It would all be all right.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I felt like writing a short aftermath, mostly beacuse I like this very tiny section of the Potterverse and wanted to indicate why it is as different as it is.

I feel a little bad for writing this Lily. I am convinced that she is really having a very hard time with herself, but since this piece is written from her own point of view it does not leave space for anyone else's feelings.


	3. Hair Trigger

_"In London, anybody, at any moment, might do or become anything. But in a village—no matter what village—they were all immutably themselves; parson, organist, sweep, duke's son and doctor's daughter, moving like chessmen upon their allotted squares." Dorothy L. Sayers_

It is not possible to pinpoint the exact moment when wizarding society realised that the Gaunt family had gone terribly wrong, other than it had happened long before anyone would dare to admit that an old and respected line had turned into _that._

_That _was the sort of family where the needs of the children had to be met by relatives, for any money given to the father would turn into liquor. Marvolo Gaunt accepted his wife's uncle buying wands for his twins, for wizards and witches had to have wands. But he sold the new robes and shoes that had been purchased on the same occasion to a second hand shop, then attacked his late wife's relative for his _condescension _and forbade him to ever darken his doorstep again.

Years later Merope would say that there had been a fragment of sincere pride to her father's early choleric outbursts, if not to his later drunken rages.

Another well-meaning person tried to set up an educational fund for the twins. The Goblins all but refused to accept the gold.

That very distant cousin had felt obliged to honour the Peverell connection, arguing that if the twins had been accepted by wands – by no means a given, with the really old families – they could also go to school, and maybe drag their once noble line back out of the mud; decline was not always irreversible. Gringotts Bank's refusal to cooperate actually worked in their favour, as the wizards chose to interpret it as despicable goblin greed. Marvolo, sensing the unexpected goodwill pulled himself together. It was not to last. Merope broke him by not making it into Slytherin and the vicinity of the right wizarding families. Morfin, never comfortable with the world, stopped speaking English altogether. The education was discontinued; the well-meaning relatives admitted defeat and joined the rest of society in pretending that the Gaunts had died out already.

And Merope stayed at home, worked the vegetable garden and fell desperately in love with the idea of being saved. Luck, being perverse, provided an opening when her father and brother were arrested for muggle baiting. Merope thanked her stars, cleaned the house and herself and set to brew a potion.

She wasn't being mean: love potions were a time-honoured way of giving a shy witch or wizard a head start at winning the affections of their object of desire. She wasn't thinking clearly, either, or she would have remembered what 'head start' means. What amounts of potion it most emphatically means not.

Desire and Despair are not people, most of the time. Yet they are mean as only people can be. 'They' would say that they appreciate a laugh as much as the next embodied basic principle of creation. That was Fate, 'who' never said _no_ to a Game.

Merope realised that there was something wrong with her potion when she returned into the cottage and saw that the clear liquid left in the cauldron was now glowing. That was mere moments after she had offered her very own prince aka Thomas Riddle 'a drink of water'.

She grabbed the cauldron and shook it, willing the liquid to turn back into 'water'. The liquid obeyed and turned a deep oceanic blue. Then it started frothing. Merope was frantic. In her defence it must be said that she was thinking of – sigh! – Tom. Her first coherent thoughts were: "I killed him!" Despairing, she picked up the cauldron and drank the rest. Then she sat on a rickety chair and awaited her own well-deserved and hopefully painful demise.

And on that rickety chair she woke up again, early next morning. She was probably not a ghost. Her head hurt too much for that. It hurt enough to indicate that she was alive, even, though getting her head from the table and her upper body into an upright position made her regret that. The sun shone merrily through the glassless window, spreading false promises of bright futures and happiness. Merope cursed – colourfully as only a daughter of Marvolo Gaunt could – and stood up. Slowly. The kitchen looked the way it had before, bleak but clean. Maybe she'd be lucky and die later today. Alternatively she could... go out and lie a little in the sunshine. Yes. It was a glorious day. No-one at all was screaming at the world in general / their own demons / her. True, Prince Charming was back in his manor, probably thinking he'd drunk too much the night before. She could – No, she could not. She'd been lucky she had not killed him. Azkaban was not on her list of places to see before she died.

True, there was no such list. Maybe she should make one, and firmly not put Azkaban on it. And then stop doing things that would land her there. Excellent plan. Merope took her rickety chair outside, to do her thinking in the sun. Later she got up and dragged another chair out and put her legs up. Still later she went to find a nice patch of grass to lie in. A grass snake joined her there and they chatted about this and that. All in all it was a very nice day. She went to bed wondering how she could arrange to have more days like that. Her family, Merlin protect them, would be enjoying the famous hospitality of Azkaban for a little longer. Maybe she would come up with a plan before they were released. One aspect of her idiotic plan of the day before had been sound: get the hell away from here.

The next day was sunny but less warm. She could not sit in the sun for more than a couple of hours at noon, so she returned into the cottage and turned her attention to a number of repairs she had been putting off for too long. Her vague plan of starting to plan a future for herself came back after a while. Another part of her very idiotic plan of two days ago that was sadly correct was that leaving home necessitated having a place to go, or funds to find one. Heck, founds to travel.

Merope was familiar with the concept of working for her livelihood; it is an awareness commonly found in people without rich families. Merope also knew that she belonged to a relatively small society that would neither hide her nor protect her against her father. (Was that why she had 'chosen' a muggle? Her father was completely hopeless when it came to navigating the muggle world.) She thought that she would be able to 'pass' in a village. Skulking around and watching her neighbours whenever she could had given her a certain familiarity with muggle village life. However, it would have to be a village that was really far away. News travelled and her family was – sadly – notorious. Her appearance – her total lack of good looks: Merope was very thin, very tall, with overly large, watery eyes awkwardly set in a gaunt face – did set her apart. She would have to go far away indeed. What she had heard about muggle towns and cities puzzled her. The noisy contrivances that sometimes passed Little Hangleton – visitors of the Riddles in them, or the doctor from Great Hangleton – what were they called? Automobiles, right. They frightened her to death. She had heard enough to understand that cities contained more of them. And more things that would frighten her. No, country life it had to be.

...but country life meant that people had to know you. People were unlikely to take on a maid who had not been recommended by acquaintances. Those who would, would pay close attention to her. Merope thought – rightly – that she could 'pass' if people weren't looking too closely. She did not think – again rightly – that she would last more than five minutes under close scrutiny. She could keep a country house, but only with magic. Worse, having always had magic meant thet she was not physically strong, as muggle servants had to be. And how would she ever get far, far away: the Gaunts had not owned something as expensive as a broom in decades; Merope had never learned apparating. How fast could she walk, then, without muggle money for a train ticket, and for how long?

Dispirited she stood up. The stove was back to as good a state of repair as she could manage. The table and chairs would not get better without additional material. What now?

There was always the pile of broken crockery, victims of Marvolo's temper. Merope sighed and started sorting the pieces so that she could then repair the plates. She slept fitfully that night, dreaming of rooms full with broken porcelain bric-a-brac and waking up before remembering the spell that would make it sort itself.

The day started like the one before and turned gradually better. Around noon Merope went outside to work in the garden.

_You brainlesss lump_, hissed a passing snake. _You nearly sssstepped on my precioussss tail!_

Merope apologised profusely. Gaunts were proud of their link to Salazar Slytherin and felt obliged to be on good terms with snakes. However, this one did not accept her apologies. It cursed her, in fact. Merope was speechless at first; then she was livid. Why on earth would everyone, be it wizard or snake, always treat her with contempt? What had she done to the world, other than having had the bad taste to be born?

_Go to blazes you nasssty little worm! Go away before I grill you for lunch!_

"Odd as all this is I will say that awful manners make a lot of sense, in a snake."

Prince Charming had decided to make an appearance. Merope fainted.

Tom Riddle sighed, and decided to go and shake her. Normally, women welcomed his appearance and were afraid of snakes. He had managed to find one who reacted the other way around. That was interesting. But why was he here?

Tom Riddle had woken up two days ago and found himself possessed by a vibrant, passionate delight in ...everything! Never had the dust motes in his sleeping room danced so prettily in the air! Never had the sun be so bright! And so on. Having frightened his parents and servants before lunch, Tom had turned his ecstatic attention to the greater world. He proceeded to horrify the dogs, amuse the horses and almost be noticed by the cat. Everything was so wonderful! He was so happy to be himself! His life lacked absolutely nothing, nothing at all! Tom was radiating enough happiness to make a stoic cry. His radioactive smile would have decimated the Dementor population of Azkaban.

Today his parents had shooed him out of the house and gone to sit in a cold, damp cellar. Was this the cynical, cold son who sat on the embers of post-war insanity like a malfunctioning phoenix? They knew what it was, it was the company he kept in town. That awful new music had finally messed with his head! These frightfully dressed, bob-headed 'flappers' had done something to him! He had – he had read a Bloomsbury book! They firmly told him to go take a walk. Maybe he would step into a bog. Maybe that would cure him.

Nature strives for balance. Tom Riddle's blazing optimism led him more or less directly to the next human black hole. Merope Gaunt with her personal micro-climate of always awful weather.

Merope regained her senses. Or not: was it possible that Tom Riddle, her former / never / newly demoted Knight on a White Steed was sitting in her garden, wearing a completely unnatural smile on his normally haughty face? What – what had been in that cauldron? She had drunk it herself. If anything it had worked as an antidote. She had fallen completely _out_ of love.

Her feelings now were utterly centred upon herself. Specifically, on the need to get out of here, and far away, and find – somehow – a life that was actually worth the bother of breathing. Truly, her earlier affection had been the hope that this would happen, somehow. Magically, if only a handsome rich muggle noticed her. Magically. That irony was completely lost on her.

A handsome, rich muggle who appeared to be looking for _something_ was currently scrutinizing_ her_. He looked slightly insane, which was probably due to the potion she had made him drink. She, having ingested the same potion, felt completely normal. Maybe saner than usual, for having recognised her infatuation for what it really was. A little sadder, too, for she was finding it hard to find anything that would give her a reason to hope.

Meanwhile, Tom was performing a simple observation and equation: here was a young woman. She was clearly distressed. Therefore she was a damsel. His own life _was_ perfect but a genuine damsel in distress is definitely not something to be sneered at. Admittedly, it helped that she was possibly in possession of the Secrets of Snakes. For if there is one thing that a perfectly happy person needs, it is new things – secrets! – to be happy about. Thoughtfully he toned his smile down a little and enquired about the reasons for her obvious – wonderful! – distress.

It was a strange conversation. Merope stuttered. Fear convinced her that he already knew, had somehow realised 'about magic' and was here to confront him about what she had done to him. Tom on the other hand was barely believing his ears; or, when Merope demonstrated a spell or two, his eyes. It never dawned on him that he had been dosed with a potion until Merope broke down and apologised. In so many words.

Unfortunately, he understood the concept of drugs. So it was not real? His state of happy contentment was nothing but a drug? He did not want to believe it: "Have you ever taken the same, what did you call it, potion?"

"I drank what was left in the cauldron. I probably drank more than you did."

She did not look as if it had had the same effect on her: "Can you explain the difference between you and me then? Or are you only frightened because you think that you've hurt me?" That would certainly be the best answer. Surely it was true! They had drank the same potion, after all! The poor girl was simply afraid!

"I remember being told that potions work differently on muggles. I mean, people without magic. People like you."

Tom was beginning to feel shaken. It could not – it had to be real! She said that their cottage was still standing because they kept repairing it magically! It was all real, it just happened differently!

"Why did you give me that potion at all? Was it a mistake?"

Yes, Merope thought, it was a mistake, but it had been made intentionaly: "I meant to give it to you."

"Then you expected it to work on me in a specific way. Even though I have no magic."

"Well. Yes." How come she had never wondered about that? Would a normal Love Potion have worked on him at all?

"What did you expect it to do? Would it have caused me to realise that my life lacks nothing at all? Would it have made me content as I am now?"

Sort of, Merope thought. It would have made you believe that your life lacks nothing at all as long as I was with you.

Had she simply forgotten to key the potion to herself? At least she had not hurt him with her ill-conceived notion. And somehow this badly-made potion had done something for him. Guilt, or remnants of genuine affection, or the unaccustomed warm feeling of having made someone happy made her want to soften the blow: "It would have made you happy, but not as happy as you are now. Whatever my error was, it made it work better. It is still working. The original potion would have faded after a day or so." And then I would have given you more. Well, never mind that now.

Tom let out a breath. It was real. It felt real, why should it not have been real? The cottage was standing. That twig that Merope had snapped and rejoined magically _was_ whole. He was grateful.

"In that case you did me great favour, intentionally or not. It did not work for you, but it seems to me that you, unlike me, have a number of very serious problems. Bearing in mind that one good turn deserves another we should think about what I can do for you."

_**..O..**  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Poor Merope is really exceedingly pathetic. Then again, she is. For a visual, I suggest starting with Lucien Freud's "Girl with Kitten" but imagine the woman in ragged robes, really gaunt, and less happy than the kitten.

This is the feel-good universe I introduced in Petunia's story. That means that there will be a Tom Riddle Jr., but I expect that he will be at least four years younger then the original (and his middle name will not be Marvolo).

This story is set in 1925 (as per the timeline provided by the Creatrix) and the Bloomsbury pun was sort of unavoidable.


	4. Magical Letters

Jake was four when the first letter arrived. He did not see it and he certainly did not read it, but he felt the effects. Later he would liken it to a silent but efficient bomb. Still later he would deny that he had received one.

The first letter that was addressed to Jake arrived on his fifth birthday. It was a very silly letter, all pictures and bright colours as if trying to console him that he had to read it. Jake's father's letter had nothing cheering on it or in it. He was still avoiding to look at Jake.

Jake's Ministry-appointed tutors declared him fit for school after less than a year. They told Jake that he was very bright and would do very well. Then they reminded Mr. Prince that people would continue to check on Jake in irregular intervals, here and at school. Jake wondered why strangers would be so interested in him when his own family clearly wasn't. They did not treat him badly, not at all. They were simply cold.

They were cold with everyone, eight year old Jake decided. He was home for the winter holidays. He would have preferred to visit with friends but he had done so during his last three holidays, and now his parents wanted to see him. And little else, Jake thought. Really, they could have met him at school, or taken him away for the weekend and then leave him be. Visiting with friends was important; it was teaching him things about his future life that school, with all its old-fashioned rules and restrictions, couldn't. Also, he liked his friends, he liked having friends, and knowing that he was popular. It was so much better than the half-cold, half-embarrassed scrutiny at home. But family was family, his family insisted, and they had to spend time together. Jake shrugged and waited for time to pass.

Jake's academic performance plummeted around the time he turned eleven. His school counsellor asked him a lot of questions about home. Jake told her that it was as it had always been. Well, there was one difference: his cousins seemed to be talking about their school all the time, when they were visiting. Jake admitted that that irritated him, as no-one wanted to listen to his stories about school. Yes, he was feeling jealous. He was feeling unappreciated. He worked just as hard as they did, what was wrong with listening to him for a change? No, he did not wish he could attend the same school as they did. It sounded boring as hell. He just wanted to tell about his school, too. Shortly after that his parents started visiting him regularly and taking him away for the weekends. But these weekends were not spend at home. As the memory of home faded Jake's grades picked up again.

When Jake was fourteen he received an invitation for a cousin's wedding. That invitation was handed to him by the school counsellor. It was one of _those_ letters. A thick creamy envelope. Parchment, no stamp on it. The counsellor asked Jake if he wanted to go and admitted that it would be a good idea for him to try and reconnect with family. Knowing Jake's priorities, she added that he could leave his various electronic gadgets at school. They would take care that nothing got lost while he was away. Relieved, Jake said that yes, he would attend the wedding. He was curious to see how his oddball cousins had turned out. And his music and games collection would be safe, too. He did not mind going.

At the wedding Jake learned that he was living under Squib-protection, or, as a sneering uncle told another, Minister Granger's Program for the Integration of Non-magical Children. The uncle said a number of other things. Jake did what he always did when people were being odious: he turned off the sound. One of the other four students who were talking regularly with that school counsellor had told him that she did not go home without a a big bar of chocolate. Or cookies. Or herbal tea. Jake had nodded with understanding but rejected the offer. He liked the effect he got by ignoring the sounds and concentrating on the mimic. It did not fail to be hilarious. One of his non-counselled friends had looked at Jake's carefully prepared album of family photographs and remarked what old-fashioned faces all his relatives had. Jake had agreed. The wedding would have made any casting director looking for extras for a period film weep for joy. Come to think of it, so would the drama club at school. Jake grinned to himself and told one of the house-elves to get Jake's vintage single-lens reflex camera.

The cookie eater was almost two years older than he was, so getting into her pants was out of the question. It was a pity because she was awfully pretty on top of being good at school, pleasantly laid-back, and the star of the all-around popular RPG club. A trophy girl-friend, if there was one. Jake was fifteen and still not over his unfortunate tendency to want to be popular at all costs. On the other hand, the counselled students were not getting together. It was an unwritten rule. Well, then. He did not want her really, anyway.

The last time Jake saw his parents before graduation he tried to tell them about his plans for university. His parents wanted to know if he had managed to meet a nice Squib girl at that school of his. Friends at the ministry had shown them the statistics, and they had managed to grasp the fact that two Squibs will, as a rule, produce magical children. His father said that it was possible to make Jake's children his heirs. He admitted that he would prefer that over knowing that his fortune would go to the useless, but magical children of his useless younger brother. Jake was tempted to ask what there was in that for him – the galeon-pound rate was still very good – but in the end he didn't, because, really, marriages arranged for the sake of an inheritance? What the hell.

On the morning Jake returned home from the weekend-long binge / celebrations of his and his best friend's new jobs, their first _real_ jobs, he reached into his pocket for his keys and found a flower instead. He stared at it uncomprehendingly. It was a peony, it was completely fresh, not crushed at all, and too big to fit into a pocket where it could have been crushed.

Jake cursed the alcohol in his bloodstream: had he picked up the flower somewhere and forgotten that he had it? Yes, that was probably the explanation. Not knowing what else to do with it he took the stem gingerly between his teeth and, having freed his hands, searched all his pockets for his keys. Then he searched again. Then he coursed, and of course lost the flower. He coursed again and bend down to retrieve it.

There, his keys!

Jake stared uncomprehendingly at his keys. But hadn't he just held something else? He did not remember. Whatever, he thought. He had his keys. Jake let himself into his flat, new job, new life. Who cared about mysterious flowers anyway?


	5. Omnia Vincit Amor, damn him

I don't own _Harry Potter_ or _Wild Target_ (at least Apuleius no longer owns the _Metamorphoses_ either).

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><p>A muggle turning into a side street ahead of her caught the attention of Bellatrix Black.<p>

She had to spend at least four hours among muggles and no idea how to pass that time. So she decided to follow him around for a while. Invisibly. She was not yet required to interact. Her healer, the heartless man who had insisted on this little exercise, hat conceded that small steps would be better. She dreaded the next time he'd send her to the muggles, or the one after that. Her healer said that dread of the future was best dealt with concentrating on the here and now. One day she would share her thoughts on that theory.

Maybe. Possibly? Hard to say. Bella was not exactly herself when- whatever. She was to concentrate on the here and now. She would. She would observe this utterly unremarkable middle-aged muggle. She took a deep breath. She followed at a reasonable observing distance. She observed.

Bellatrix Black was several years out of Hogwarts. She was still Bellatrix Black, and not much else. Suffering from psychotic magic does that to witches and wizards. He sisters had experienced similar problems, but their magic had settled, they were happily married, and, in Andromeda's case, scandalously successful. In the muggle world. Their parents had been livid. Until Narcissa had topped Andi by marrying a-

Bellatrix killed that train of thought. Psychotic she may be, but she was still disciplined, damn it. Here and now, Thomas, had said.

Besides, Andi and Cissa were happy with their first-generation-wizard and wizard with benefits (read: not entirely human) respectively. _The__i__r_ magic was stable.

_Here and now_, Thomas' voice whispered into her ear. Not that Thomas had ever whispered to Bella.

The muggle was remarkably unremarkable. That was not natural. Was that why she had picked him? Bella had well-honed reflexes, situational awareness and an eye for anomalies. With stable magic she could have been an amazing Auror or HitWitch. With her magic as it was she could probably have been a fearsome killer, but that was not an option. Andi would brain her, Cissa would stop inviting her to her parties and Thomas would be disappointed.

The muggle had thin (thin-ish), sandy hair. Short but not cropped, worn with a center parting. Sandy mustache, also thin-ish. Dark blue suit, light blue shirt. He carried another garment over an arm. (The day was mild.) Only two hours into the muggle world Bella had noticed a number of very interesting suits. This was not one of them.

He was walking swiftly, through not noticeably so. Bella was able to follow at a comfortable pace and catch the occasional glimpse of his face in the shop windows. He was entirely mediocre; everything a Black was not. But for that intangible _something_. Or was that perceived weirdness simply the result of too close scrutiny? Bella turned some of her attention back to her surroundings. They had not passed a shop window for some time now, she realised. So much had she been caught up in the observation of her victim- target, she meant target! What was the matter with her?

Something was.

Her witch's sense kicked in. She had followed him through streets that were less and less inviting. Not Knockturn Alley, but getting there.

Bad atmosphere.

Why bad?

Bellatrix had an eye for anomalies.

He was carrying a garment over his left arm. Why?

Why was that important?

Ahead of them another muggle left a building and dropped dead. Bellatrix froze. (That noise. Had it anything to do with this?)

Her target turned around and inspected his surroundings. Stance and eyes of ...a killer. _He_ had killed the other muggle? How? (The noise? Something under that garment?)

Thank Merlin she was invisible.

The muggle decided that there was nothing to see. Face and stance relaxed. He started turning back. Why so slowly?

The family talisman portkeyed her out before he could sink the third, lethal shot into her head. But Bellatrix did not know that.

**Ξ**

The flowers where _everywhere._ Thomas could hardly breathe. Bellatrix' mother had chosen the flowers and she had not gone for subtle. Perfect for the tragically glamorous funeral of a favourite daughter of the House of Black.

Or was Druella Black trying to say something about the groom?

Thomas Ignotus Riddle knew that some marriages were more improbable than others. Take his own parents for example. A failed potioning, some small acts of charity and years of occasional letters. Not very promising, but his parents were undoubtedly happy. And Bella? The silly witch who had harbored a silly crush on her healer? Thomas had regretted (He had admitted once, over a whisky, that she might have interested him. Under different circumstances) that Bella was his patient. (Colleagues had warned him about the occasional silly person who thinks they're in love with their healers. Thankfully, Thomas was not emotional, or life could have turned messy. Once or twice.)

And then the silly witch had got herself shot. The house-elf had put her under a powerful stasis charm. Like food, her mother had wailed, but it had saved her life. Healers who understood bullet wounds were the exception, not the rule, in this benighted world they lived in.

Thomas had three masteries and two PhDs. Conservative wizards distrusted him because of that. He was one of the foremost researchers in his fields and had invented several others. Witches and wizards who wanted to study under him risked the wrath of their families. The same families, it had to be noted, who turned to him when their precious offspring went sick and the traditional healers avoided them because the diagnosis was "too pure, nothing to be done about it." Ahem. Few outside sources of magic meant few triggers of episodes. The continuous presence of non-human magic was another way. One did not have to marry his or her 'ground', though considering how hot Narcissa and her quarter-Nāga husband looked together it might well become popular to do so.

Thomas smirked. The Black sisters were veritable earthquakes. Now Bellatrix was marrying a muggle. Not a first-generation-wizard, like Andromeda had. But a man without an ounce of magic (Thomas had tested him).

And, incidentally, an Assassin.

Trust Bellatrix to introduce herself with a bone splitting curse and end up in the most exclusive tea room of muggle London. Apparently, his mother had approved instantly.

The Blacks had resisted. Officialy. Behind the scenes they had been ecstatic: a killer from a long line of killers? Who cared that he had no magic! Bella had enough magic for both of them!

According to Sirius Black, but Thomas had met Walpurga and ...well.

Thomas himself had not taken the news of the engagement gracefully. He had been sufficiently peeved to mention morals. His mother had had to shut him up: Bella's intended was employed by capital-C-Criminals to remove other Criminals. Swiftly, discreetly and without a mess. He was most emphatically not a butcher. Somebody will do it; it is in the best interest of the victims to let him do it, Thomas' mother had lectured him. Anyway, Bella loves him. Surely you want her to be happy?

He had answered that she deserved to be happy (which was not exactly what Thomas' mother had asked).

The couple said their vows. Bella was radiant. Next to Thomas, the groom's mother dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Correction: with her gloved finger. The handkerchief was probably a weapon. The old lady had insisted that he sit next to her. She _knew_.

The maddening question in Thomas' mind was this: what was the point of admitting to emotional investment in somebody if somebody was no longer interested? True, it had taken him years and her sudden near-death to get really, did she have to become happy by performing the Rite of Amor?

Yes, he had not returned her feelings, of course she had been fed up with the situation, but Ritual Magic (so-called) was a low blow.

He, Thomas Ignotus Riddle, undaunted meddler where wizardkind was not meant to meddle, had never performed ritual magic. Never.

It wasn't magic at all. _Ritual Magic_ was a bloody euphemism for _praying_. Masters of many magical disciplines, none as progressive as Thomas, admitted freely that the only magic during a 'Ritual' was the dampening of the magic of the participants (claimant and witnesses. To assure the gods that the claimant was worthy. How could anyone call _that_ magic?). Thomas hypothesised that this short-term loss of magic (accompanied by feelings of elation and panic) had been the original purpose of such rituals. An equivalent of blood-letting.

Uninterested in his hypotheses – for once – Bella had gone ahead and asked Amor to release her from her unrequited love. And bloody Amor had had the bad taste to respond. To add insult to injury, he had responded creatively. For while Amor was supposed to shoot people he was not supposed to keep them afterwards.

As the guests queued to offer their congratulations, Thomas took another look at the happy groom. His ability to fade away from attention at his own wedding was remarkable.

But that was just fancy thinking. The heavy odour of the flowers had gotten to him.

And yet: the groom's mother was too old to be called beautiful. But what you'd call naturally elegant, the sort that made everyone else look slovenly. And the unremarkable, sand-coloured groom? Right now there was a strong hint of something more to him. Something preternaturally bright. A hint of mischief. And wasn't today's not too small congregation of witches and wizards not unusually relaxed for a congregation of, well, witches and wizards? Many of whom were related to each other?

When it was Thomas' turn to congratulate the couple he managed to do it gracefully. The radiant bride still managed to hear something more in his words. "When you are ready to perform the Rite of Amor yourself I will stand as your witness," she told him earnestly.

Thomas was going to investigate Ritual Magic, not start believing in it. But he could hardly get into a disagreement now, so he joked instead: "Being set on fire by the love of my life. I think I'd enjoy that."

The groom arched a thin, sandy eyebrow.


End file.
